


Fly On The Wall

by literally_no_idea



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bruce Banner Feels, Bruce Banner Has Dissociative Identity Disorder, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bullying, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Has Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deaf Clint Barton, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Don't copy to another site, Emetophobia, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Multi, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Other, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Underage Rape/Non-con, Violence, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-01-25 20:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literally_no_idea/pseuds/literally_no_idea
Summary: The team gets captured. Thor is lucky; he’s back on Asgard for the time being, so he isn’t with them on the mission when they get overpowered, each of them being dosed with something that knocks them out.(Tags/Characters/Warnings will be updated as the chapters are posted.)





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I'm sad and I like to share my sadness so. Whoops.
> 
> This story is dark. Very, very dark.
> 
> Each person gets their own chapter of suffering. Yeah. Enjoy!

The team gets captured. Thor is lucky; he’s back on Asgard for the time being, so he isn’t with them on the mission when they get overpowered, each of them being dosed with something that knocks them out.

 

Tony is the last to wake up, and when he does, he finds them all in some kind of dungeon, each of them chained to the walls by their wrists and ankles, legs together and feet not quite reaching the ground, arms stretched to the side. Tony is reminded of the crosses in the churches his parents used to drag him to as a kid. There’s also a collar around each of their necks.

 

“So, anything interesting I should know?” he asks the others.

 

“Well, the collars must be some kind of power suppression, because I’m not getting anything from Hulk,” Bruce says.

 

The door opens, and a woman walks in, holding what looks like a small jewel. “You’re correct, the collars suppress powers,” she says, “I needed a way to make sure none of you could get out of here before we’re done.”

 

“Done with what?” Steve asks, and she smiles.

 

“Patience, Captain, I’m getting there. You’ll all be released when I have the information I want. Now, who shall we start with? Mr. Stark, would you like to volunteer?”

 

“Sure, if it gets you to stop talking,” Tony says, trying to get the attention off of his teammates, and she approaches him.

 

“Wonderful. Ladies and gentlemen, this-” she holds up the jewel looking thing “is a lovely little device that will show us your five worst memories. But, it does a bit more than that. Any pain or emotions experienced in the memories will be transferred to your current body, so you can really relive the experience, and so the rest of us can enjoy it to the fullest.”

 

Tony actually feels a little sick now, because no, he definitely doesn’t like this. “Hey, I’d like to veto my previous decision to volunteer,” he says, but the woman just presses the jewel to his forehead.

 

“Sorry, dear, but it’s a little too late for that. What have you got for us?”

 

Tony’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and the memory starts. While the rest of the room is seeing the memory projected on the far wall, Tony feels as if he’s actually back in the memory itself.

 

_ Tony’s sitting on the kitchen floor, crying, while people argue around him. _

 

_ “You can’t treat a four year old like that, Howard!” Peggy yells. _

 

_ Howard scoffs. “Peggy, please, he’s hardly a normal four year old.” _

 

_ “Howard, stop!” Maria Stark pulls at Howard’s sleeve, at the same time that Edwin Jarvis reaches for Peggy’s shoulder. _

 

_ “Ms. Carter, please,” Jarvis says, and Peggy wheels on him. _

 

_ “Why haven’t you stopped him? You see what he does to him! The yelling, the drinking, you can’t actually think this is fine!” _

 

_ Jarvis looks hurt. “I’m trying. What do you expect me to do? I need this job. I can’t just walk away.” He whispers something to her, and her expression softens. _

 

_ “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Peggy turns back to where Howard is still standing in front of her, Maria, having stepped back again. Peggy stares at him, then, in one fluid motion, she backhands him. “You, on the other hand, are a disgrace.” _

 

_ Peggy comes over to crouch in front of Tony. “No matter what he tells you, you will always be the smartest, best Stark I have ever known. There’s nothing you can’t do. Steve would be proud of you, if he were here.” _

 

The memory fades, and everyone in the dungeon turns to Tony, who would personally love to curl up and disappear right about now. Steve’s staring at him, wide eyed. “I didn’t know you knew Peggy,” he says, and Tony nods.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, she meant the world to me,” he rasps, and their captor claps.

 

“Okay darlings, part two!”

 

The next memory starts.

 

_ Tony’s struggling under the weight of six other boys, all of them larger and stronger than him. _

 

_ Punches and kicks rain down on Tony’s chest, stomach, and face, and Tony can feel his face swelling, hears the crunch of his nose breaking, is pretty sure he feels one of his ribs crack, maybe even break. _

 

_ He tries not to, but he screams. He screams, and cries, and it only seems to encourage the boys above him. _

 

_ “Yeah, keep crying for your mommy, Stark, you’re not so smart away from all your tech, are you? Asshole.” _

 

_ One of the boys presses his foot down on Tony’s throat, and Tony thrashes, gasping for air. Just as Tony’s face starts to turn blue, the boy lifts his foot, and Tony’s chest heaves as he chokes, inhales air as fast as his lungs can manage. _

 

_ “Lift him up, let’s put him in the dumpster,” another boy says, and all six boys grab him, carrying him over and dropping him into a large, empty dumpster. Tony whimpers as he hits the bottom. _

 

_ “See you in Advanced Biomechanics, Stark!” The lid to the dumpster shuts, and there’s the loud clink of chains. _

 

_ “No, no no no, please,” Tony mutters, hauls himself to his feet and pushes at the lid, finding it chained shut. _

 

_ “No! Please, let me out! Please! Please, I’m sorry! I won’t talk anymore! Just let me out, please!” He screams as loud as his raspy throat allows, but there’s no answer. _

 

_ After a few minutes, Tony collapses back to the bottom of the dumpster, sobbing. _

 

This time, when everyone looks back at Tony, he can tell that his nose is actually bleeding, that whatever the woman keeping them captive had said is true, that he’s actually going to acquire the same wounds from his memories in the present day.

 

Tony’s stomach sinks when he realizes what this means.

 

“No, hey, can we skip the next three? I’d really, really appreciate it, we can just, not,” he tries, but the woman laughs.

 

“Nope! Time for memory number three!”

 

_ Tony’s in the cave, and they’re shoving his head underwater. Tony can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe, he’s going to drown in this fucking cave and there’s nothing he can do about it, there’s nothing he can do-- _

 

_ His head is lifted up, and he coughs up water and blood. _

 

_ “Will you build the missile?” _

 

_ “No.” _

 

_ They shove his head back underwater, and some water must drip onto the wires attached to the car battery, because there’s suddenly pain, so much pain, and Tony’s body thrashes, he inhales water without meaning to. He throws up underwater. _

 

_ They pull his head back up, and Tony sobs, throws up again, this time a mass of water, blood, mucus, and stomach acid. _

 

_ “Will you build the missile?” _

 

_ Tony sobs, but he shakes his head. They shove his head back underwater. _

 

Tony screams as his awareness returns to the dungeon they’re in. The taste of bile fills his mouth and when he looks down at himself he finds vomit all down the front of his clothes, dripping onto the floor. There’s blood soaking through his shirt (no, please, don’t let it be there again, please, no), and his leg spasms through the last of the feeling of being electrocuted.

 

“Number four!” Their captor says cheerfully, and Tony just closes his eyes, allows the next memory to start.

 

_ Tony’s laying on the couch in the Malibu house, paralyzed. Stane’s just left with the arc reactor, and Tony can feel his body starting to go into cardiac arrest. He strains, tries to move, but he can’t, and he knows he won’t be able to, he’s the one that designed the damn device that paralyzed him, of course it works. _

 

_ When Tony finally regains control of his body, it doesn’t help much, because as the shrapnel moves in his chest, as his body starts to shut down, he can only crawl, can’t stand. He crawls to the stairs that lead to the workshop, drops himself down them. At least gravity can do that much for him. _

 

_ Tony’s pretty sure he’s going to have some major bruises, if he survives this. _

 

_ He crawls to the workshop door, drags himself inside, drags himself towards the original arc reactor design, the one Pepper had put in such a nice case for him. He makes it to the desk, and he keeps reaching for it, but he can’t quite reach it, he can’t, no matter how hard he tries, and isn’t that fucking depressing, he’s going to die with the one thing he needs to live just inches away. _

 

_ He lays down, because there’s no point, and then Dum-E beeps, and he looks up, sees Dum-E holding the case. “Good boy.” He grabs the case, smashes the glass on the ground beside him, puts the reactor in, and then lays there, letting his body recalibrate for a minute. _

 

Tony jerks in the restraints, hands instinctively trying to reach for his chest to check and make sure the reactor’s there, make sure he’s safe. If it’s tears and not sweat rolling down his face, then he’s just going to keep pretending it’s sweat anyway.

 

“One more!” Their captor says, and Tony already knows where this is headed.

 

_ “Would you like me to call Ms. Potts?” JARVIS asks, and Tony agrees, watches as the call blinks on the HUD as he carries the nuke towards the wormhole. _

 

_ The call still hasn’t gone through when Tony goes through, and the suit shuts down completely. Tony watches the explosion in front of him, and he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, can feel the tightness as he starts to run out of air. He closes his eyes. _

 

_ At least this is all going to end soon. He did Yinsen proud; he didn’t waste his life. Maybe he was finally enough. _

 

_ There’s a roar, and Tony jolts, wakes up with a shout. _

 

_ “What happened?” _

 

_ “We won.” _

 

_ “Okay, yay! Go team!” _

 

Tony’s back in the dungeon again, and everyone’s watching him. Their captor smiles.

 

“Thank you for volunteering, Tony! That was fun, wasn’t it? Well, that’s enough for one day, Captain Rogers, we can start your memories tomorrow! Good night, everyone!”

 

She leaves the room, the door booming shut behind her, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut, because he doesn’t want to see the looks on his teammates’ faces right now.

 

“So, can we just pretend none of that happened? I want to pretend none of that happened,” he says into the silence.

 

“Tony, are you okay?” Steve’s voice asks, and Tony opens his eyes, glares at Steve.

 

“Well obviously fucking not! But what does it matter, huh? It’s a bunch of stupid bullshit, all the worst memories in my life weren’t even that bad, and I have a feeling all of you have a lot worse than that.”

 

“Actually, I don’t think so. Maybe around as bad, a little more or a little less, but not significantly worse, no. That was bad, Tony,” Natasha says, and Tony glares at her.

 

“Bullshit. Whatever. I don’t want to fucking talk about it. Look, we’re going to see all of each other’s worst memories anyway, and it’s been a stressful fucking day, so can we just sleep? Or something? I don’t want to talk about this.”

 

No one replies, so Tony closes his eyes, tries to fall asleep. He does, but it takes a while, and he can hear the others shifting around in their own bonds.

 

He wakes up at least three times during the night, wakes up to the sound of his own screaming. Thankfully, no one tries to talk to him, even though he’s sure that he woke them up, so he gets to try and fall back asleep in peace.


	2. Steve

Their captor walks back into the room, holding the little jewel that she’d taken off of Tony’s head yesterday.

 

“Captain Rogers, it’s your turn! Are you ready?”

 

Steve puts on his best poker face and nods. “Let’s do this.”

 

“Ooh, so brave! Okay, let’s begin.” The woman puts the jewel on Steve’s forehead, and the room around him changes.

 

_ “Steve, you shouldn’t be in here,” Steve’s mom, says, voice raspy and weak, probably raw and painful from all the coughing. Steve would know, he’s only just kicked pneumonia himself. _

 

_ “I’m not leaving you,” he says, sitting beside her hospital bed, holding her hand in his. _

 

_ She smiles at him. “You’ve always been so headstrong, so passionate and caring. You hold on to that, baby, okay?” _

 

_ “What… what are you talking about? Mom, you’re not going anywhere, you can beat this,” Steve says, but his mom’s eyes close, and the hand holding his lets go. _

 

_ “Mom? Mom!” Steve presses an ear to her chest, then jumps to his feet, running from the room. “Help! I need a doctor, please, help!” _

 

Steve blinks away tears to look around the little dungeon. He doesn’t even have time to say anything before he’s pulled into the next memory.

 

_ Four men have a young girl trapped in an alleyway, pinning her against the wall and literally ripping her clothes off. The girl is crying, but no one seems to have noticed. Steve does. He’s maybe seventeen years old, with the build of a fourteen year old, but he confronts them anyway. _

 

_ “Hey, leave the girl alone!” The men turn, and only one of them steps away from the girl to approach Steve. The man knocks Steve on his ass with the first punch, but Steve just keeps getting back up, weak punches landing in between heavy hits raining down on him. _

 

_ Steve’s got a black eye, there’s blood in his mouth from where he’d bit down on his tongue, and he’s definitely going to be a mass of bruises by tomorrow morning. _

 

_ “Walk away, kid,” the man says, but Steve just uses the trash can to haul himself back to his feet, stumbling as he faces off against the man again. _

 

_ “I can do this all day.” _

 

_ As it turns out, he can’t, because the man hits him again, hard enough to knock him out, and when Steve comes back to consciousness later, he knows that the men had raped that girl anyway, and there was nothing he could do about it. That hurts, more than the bruises or blood ever could. _

 

“Such a fighter!” Their captor croons. “Let’s see what else you’ve got for us.”

 

Steve spits out the blood in his mouth, waits for the next memory.

 

_ Bucky picks up Steve’s shield, and almost immediately a blast hits the shield, throwing Bucky out of the side of the train. Steve knocks down the person who hit Bucky, then climbs out onto the side of the train. _

 

_ “Bucky!” _

 

_ Steve reaches for him, and Bucky reaches out, just in time for the bar to break off of the train. Steve watches Bucky fall, watches until he can’t anymore, can’t bear to think about what a fall from this height would do to a person. _

 

_ He wants to cry, wants to throw up, but that’s not going to bring Bucky back. This is his fault; if Bucky hadn’t picked up Steve’s shield, he’d be fine, he’d be alive, this is all Steve’s fault, that should have been Steve, not Bucky. _

 

“Wow, you really can’t save anyone, can you? Next memory!” Their captor says.

 

Steve tries, and fails, to swallow his guilt.

 

_ “Help! Help, please!” _

 

_ In the middle of the battle, Steve turns to the source of the screaming, finds Private O’Reilly, an 18 year old kid, laying on the ground, one of his arms and both of his legs blown off by what must have been some kind of grenade. _

 

_ Steve runs over to him, crouches down to check the damage, see if there’s any possibility of this kid surviving this battle. There isn’t. _

 

_ “Please,” O’Reilly gasps out, “get me back to my parents. They’ll need a body, or they’ll never mourn.” _

 

_ “You’re not dying on me today, Private, so you can just put that out of your mind,” Steve says. “You just breathe with me, alright? We’re gonna get you home. You’re gonna see your parents again.” _

 

_ O’Reilly nods, relaxes back on the ground. “Thanks, Captain.” He closes his eyes, and then he’s gone. _

 

_ Steve finally sheds the tears he didn’t want O’Reilly to see. He stands, goes back to finish the battle. When it’s over, he picks up O’Reilly’s body, carries him back to camp so his remains can be sent to his family. He failed O’Reilly in life, he’s not going to do the same in death. _

 

“You really are All-American selfless, aren’t you, Captain?”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything, stares at the dungeon’s floor and tries not to think too much about what his last memory will be.

 

_ Steve hates himself as he crashes the Valkyrie into the ice. He hates that he never gave Peggy the dance she deserved, he hates that he was supposed to be better, faster, and stronger, and yet he still couldn’t save the people he promised he’d save. _

 

_ He hates that he couldn’t think of a better solution, that he doesn’t see another option. But he hopes that dying will at least give him resolution. That he’ll finally be at peace. _

 

_ Then he wakes up in a room that was clearly manufactured to remind him of home, but everything about it is screaming “wrong” in his head, and a woman walks in and Steve’s suspicion that he’s not in his country is confirmed. _

 

_ Steve bolts, runs out and finds himself somewhere that’s familiar, but everything’s wrong, it’s like he’s on an alien planet, and then a man with an eyepatch tells him he’s been asleep for seventy years, and Steve just wishes this was all over with, he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be here, but what choice does he have? _

 

The dungeon comes back into reality, and the woman takes the jewel off of Steve’s forehead. “Hmm, I was honestly expecting some better stuff from you, Captain Rogers, but I guess that’s good enough. Ms. Romanov, you’re next! I’ll see you tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen.”

 

“Steve?” Natasha asks softly, and Steve shakes his head.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”

 

Natasha nods, and when no one else says anything, Steve closes his eyes, slumps in his bonds and tries not to shiver, tries to remind himself that he’s not actually cold, it’s just the memory, that’s all. It doesn’t help; Steve keeps repeating it to himself anyway.


	3. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty intense. Proceed with caution.

Natasha’s not sure what memories of hers will be shown; she’s done a lot of terrible things in her lifetime, has a lot of things that could possibly be in the “five worst memories” category. She just watches when the woman enters the dungeon the next day.

 

“Ready, Ms. Romanov?” The woman asks, and Natasha shakes her head.

 

“No, wait!” she says, and the woman frowns.

 

“The Black Widow, so formidable, yet so frightened of her own memories?”

 

“Actually, I just need a few more minutes to decide which memories I would consider the worst. I have a large repertoire, as I’m sure you can imagine,” Natasha says, her smile absolutely predatory.

 

To their captor’s credit, she only takes a half step back in fear. Most people are much more affected, so Natasha adds that to her mental notes about this woman.

 

“Very funny. Well, let’s begin anyway, shall we?”

 

The jewel is pressed to Natasha’s forehead.

 

_ “Romanova! Step forward.” _

 

_ Natasha stepped forward from the line of nine girls, all between the ages of 8 and 12. Natasha was the seventh girl to step forward, and she ignored the whimpers and even screams of her peers, trying to ignore her concern for them. No matter how much it hurt, they couldn’t show weakness. They would never survive the program at that rate. _

 

_ The administrator grabbed Natasha’s right foot in one hand, holding a mallet in the other. The instructor and the evaluator stood across the room. _

 

_ “Why are you a Black Widow?” The instructor asked in Russian. _

 

_ “I am a Black Widow because I am ruthlessly efficient, graceful and deadly,” Natasha recited back, locking her gaze on the instructor while the administrator broke her ankle, then smashed her toes with the mallet. Natasha barely flinched. She was the top of her class for a reason, despite also being the youngest there at barely eight years old. _

 

_ The instructor nodded. “Correct. Step back into line.” _

 

Back in the dungeon, their captor whoops with excitement. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Even for our non-Russian speakers, that was quite the show!”

 

Natasha pulls at her right leg experimentally, hisses when she confirms that yes, her ankle and toes are broken.

 

Their captor smiles. “What’s next?”

 

_ Natasha was on her knees in a circle of American men, facing the group leader, Jaime, her mark for this mission. Technically, the others were also marks for this mission, but he was the most important. They were in his hotel room, after all. _

 

_ “Are you sure about this, sweetheart?” Jaime asked her, and Natasha nodded, looking up at him through her lashes. “Of course, sir. I can’t get pregnant, so you don’t have to use condoms, either.” _

 

_ “Jesus,” one of the other men in the group breathed. “Are you even legal, kid? How old are you?” _

 

_ “I’m 12, sir. But does it matter? I won’t tell if you won’t,” Natasha said, resting back on her heels with a slight pout. She knows how to work a man, or even a group of men. This is just another part of her training. _

 

_ The men trade glances, then Jaime nods. “Yeah, okay. Follow me, and take your clothes off.” He takes her over to the bed, and Natasha pulls her clothes off as she walks, a short skirt and a see-through shirt with a pink bra. She doesn’t have underwear on, and the men whistle softly as she strips. _

 

_ “God, baby, you’re beautiful. Come here.” Jaime pats the bed beside him, pulling his pants down. “Can you prepare yourself for me baby? I want to watch.” _

 

_ Natasha fingers herself, plays up her moans and breathy gasps, and she knows she has the room under her control now, it’ll just be too easy to get information from them while they fuck her. Men are so easy to manipulate when they’re thinking with their dicks instead of their brains. _

 

_ Natasha fucks her way through each of them, takes the last three men all at once, one fucking her mouth, another fucking her ass, and one more fucking her cunt. She gags around the cock in her throat despite having no gag reflex, because she knows most guys get off on that. _

 

_ When all is said and done, and the men have left to go to the meeting they’re actually here in Russia for, she lays in bed for a moment, then runs to the bathroom, throwing up. She hates this part of her missions, hates it, but she doesn’t have a choice. _

 

_ She flushes her vomit down the toilet, rinses her mouth out in the sink, then walks through the hotel room and digs through their files, both paper and digital, to add to what she learned just from listening to them. It’s a lot, and she’s at least proud that she got the information she needed and more. _

 

_ She takes a quick shower, redresses, and heads back to report to her handler. _

 

“Now I see how the Black Widows get their name, you use the men and then destroy them in one way or another. Interesting.”

 

Natasha can taste the bile in her throat, and her body is sore in ways she wishes she couldn’t feel. She throws up one more time for good measure before the next memory starts.

 

_ “You can do better,” the Winter Soldier hisses, and Natasha dodges one punch just for the Soldier to wrap his metal arm around her neck, lifting her off the ground. She thrashes in his grip, hands groping wildly at the arm for a weak spot. She doesn’t find one. _

 

_ She’s just starting to pass out when the Soldier drops her, throws her to the ground, and her hands instinctively go up to hold her throat, coughing. _

 

_ “Pathetic,” the Soldier spits at her, and she’s pretty sure he actually would have spit on her if it wasn’t for the mask on the lower half of his face. “And you claim to be a Black Widow.” _

 

_ Natasha sits up, taking as deep of a breath as she’s able to, then rises to her feet, lunges for the Soldier again. She knows she’s outmatched, but she needs to think smarter, not stronger, she’s just so tired, she hasn’t slept in 52 hours and she doesn’t get the feeling that she’ll be allowed to sleep anytime soon either. _

 

_ The Soldier sweeps her legs out from under her, and she crashes to the concrete floor, groaning. The Soldier drops down, pins her hands above her head with his metal arm, and pulls a knife off of his belt with his flesh hand. _

 

_ “Tell me exactly how many times I beat your defenses. That’s how many cuts you’ll receive. For every number you’re off by, I’m adding that many more cuts to the count.” _

 

_ Natasha reviews the fight in her head for a moment. “Seven,” she says, with more confidence than she feels, and the Soldier hums. _

 

_ “Eight times. You were off by one, so nine cuts.” The cuts aren’t shallow; he digs the knife into the meat of her thighs, her upper arms, her stomach, her chest. _

 

_ Natasha doesn’t scream or flinch, or even blink. She takes all nine cuts, and the Soldier stands up. “Training is over for today. Clean up, then return to your room,” he says as he walks out of the room. _

 

_ Natasha stands, stops the bleeding enough that it doesn’t continue to drip onto the floor, then starts to scrub the concrete floor clean. _

 

The dungeon is almost a welcome sight after that. Natasha can feel the cuts on her body bleeding, and she’s at least grateful she won’t have to clean the floor here.

 

She remembers the hours after that memory; it had taken three hours to get the floor completely clean, and she’d only just laid down in bed when she’d been summoned again. She hadn’t gotten to sleep for another 39 hours.

 

“You got to train with the Winter Soldiers? Huh. You learn something new every day,” their captor says softly.

 

Natasha doesn’t reply, just waits for the next memory.

 

_ Natasha knows what her mission is. She knows she’s going to do it, but she hates it. She hates it. She waits in the alley, because her mark, a young girl, walks past this alley every day on her way home from school. Natasha’s mission is simple. Wait for the girl, abduct her quietly, don’t draw attention, bring the girl back to her handler so the girl can be used to blackmail her father. _

 

_ Natasha waits until the girl comes into view, then quickly pulls her into the alley, presses a hand over her mouth. “Shh, don’t say anything, and don’t scream, or your dad won’t survive,” Natasha tells the girl, and she can see the panic in the girl’s eyes, the kid is only five years old, for fuck’s sake. _

 

_ The girl nods, and Natasha takes her hand off the girl’s mouth. “We’re going to walk a few blocks away, get into the car I tell you to get into, and we’re going to drive away. No games. As far as anyone knows, I’m just here to take care of you.” _

 

_ The girl nods again, and Natasha takes the girl’s hand, leads her to the car, and puts the girl in the backseat, then gets in the front to drive. _

 

_ “Are you going to hurt me?” the girl asks, and Natasha looks at her in the rear view mirror. The girl is crying. Natasha’s heart hurts. _

 

_ “I’m just giving you to someone else, that’s all. I don’t know anything beyond that.” _

 

_ “Please don’t hurt my dad, I’ll do whatever you ask.” _

 

_ Natasha hates everything about this. She parks in the designated parking garage, and two men take the girl out of the backseat, while Natasha’s handler comes up to hear her mission report. _

 

_ “I’m not doing this again,” she says quietly. _

 

_ Her handler frowns. “Excuse me?” _

 

_ “I’m not abducting children again. I can’t,” she repeats. “I’m sorry.” _

 

_ Her handler slaps her. She doesn’t react. _

 

“The Black Widow actually has a heart, who knew!” their captor says. “Well, only one more today!”

 

_ Natasha was hopelessly outnumbered. The mission had been a trap, Natasha had known it from the moment her handler had said she was to go in alone, but there was nothing she could do. Disobeying her handler meant certain death. Any Widow that disobeyed their handler was to be executed on the spot. So she could only hope she’d survive the mission. _

 

_ She’s pinned down in a warehouse, she’s hiding in the corner furthest from the exit and there’s at least 25 hostiles between her and the exit. She’s out of bullets, she has no armor, and only a short dagger. She’s not going to make it. There’s no way. _

 

_ Natasha takes a deep breath, decides that she has nothing to lose by trying, and she abandons her hiding spot, runs for the exit. She knows the moment she’s spotted, because one bullet clips her shoulder, another catches her left calf, and one more hits her gut. _

 

_ She keeps running, because what other choice does she have? She lets herself scream, because they all know where she is anyway, there’s no point in being quiet now. And then… then the bullets slowly stop. _

 

_ There’s a whistle of air, and Natasha turns to see one of the people she’s running from fall, an arrow sticking out of their chest, and damn it, he’s here? _

 

_ “Fancy seeing you here!” Clint shouts, jumping down from the rafters, and walking towards her. “Actually, I came here on purpose. A little birdie, if you will, told me that one of the Widows was being sent on a suicide mission. I’m the local shit assassin, so I can’t have other people take my place on suicide missions. I’m sure you understand.” _

 

_ Natasha nods, clutching the wound in her side. “Fair enough. Mind helping me out here?” _

 

_ “Of course.” Clint comes up beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist while she puts her arm over his shoulders. _

 

_ “So, Budapest all over again?” she asks, and Clint looks at her, laughs a little. _

 

_ “You and I remember Budapest very differently.” _

 

As soon as her awareness comes back to her, Natasha looks up at Clint, sending him a small smile. “Fucking Budapest,” she says, and starts to laugh maybe a little hysterically, only to cough up some blood, and well, that’s probably not good.

 

“I’m sure we’ll see that tomorrow when it’s your turn, Mr. Barton, but we’re done for now. Thank you for your insights, Ms. Romanov.” Their captor takes the jewel off of Natasha’s head and leaves. Natasha sags in the bonds a little.

 

Clint looks over at Natasha. “Nat, do you want to talk about--”

 

“No,” she whispers. “No. I don’t.”

 

No one bothers her. She wishes they would have, because then she wouldn’t feel so pathetic for talking anyway.

 

“For those of you that don’t speak Russian, the first and third memories might have been confusing. All you need to know is that I wasn’t the only Black Widow, but I was the best. There were multiple Winter Soldiers, but he was the best. The Black Widow program got its name because the Widows were fast, graceful, efficient, deadly. All females, because the female black widow spider is stronger than the male.

 

The Winter Soldiers were both men and women, soldiers whose brute strength and death counts were comparable to Russia’s most brutal winters. Both programs were meant to be the best of the best in their fields, enhanced by serums and meant to be the perfect weapons.”

 

Natasha pauses, lets out a shaky breath. “After the suicide mission they sent me on, they killed off the rest of the Widows, called the program a failure. I don’t know what happened to the Winter Soldiers.”

 

“Jesus,” Steve breathes, “I didn’t know anyone else managed to perfect serums like Dr. Erskine’s.”

 

Natasha shakes her head. “They weren’t perfect, but they were good enough. Enough to give us longer life spans, heightened abilities, but nothing quite as extensive as yours.”

 

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Tony breaks it. “So, are we not going to talk about the whole broken foot thing? Because that looked… terrible, actually, I don’t have another word for it.”

 

Natasha laughs. “Widows are trained not to feel pain. Or, at the least, not to react to it. Not to let it compromise efficiency. Anything else?”

 

Silence. Natasha nods. “Great. Then I need sleep. My healing is slightly faster than normal, but I do still need to rest.”

 

No one complains, so Natasha lets herself fall into unconsciousness, exhausted from the memories. And it’s technically passing out and not sleeping, well, hopefully none of the others can tell the difference.


	4. Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another really rough one. But, this whole thing is rough, so. Yeah.

Clint meets their captor with all of his usual attitude.

 

“So, this really rocks your socks, huh? Or should I say jewels your socks? But that doesn’t rhyme, hmm, Tony what type of clothing rhymes with jewels?”

 

“Mr. Barton, as annoying as ever,” their captor says, and Clint grins.

 

“Yep, that’s right! Someone’s gotta be. So, what’s the agenda today? We’re taking a tour through my old noggin? It might be a little disappointing.”

 

Their captor smiles. “Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Barton. But let’s find out for ourselves, shall we?”

 

The jewel is pressed to Clint’s forehead, and the first memory starts.

 

_ “Stop, Harold, you’ll kill him!” _

 

_ Clint’s father, Harold, stands up from where he was crouched over Clint, forcing beer down Clint’s throat. Clint is eight years old, on the ground with his back pressed against the washing machine, broken glass from Harold’s last beer bottle digging into Clint’s palms where they’re pressed to the floor, with a black eye that’s so puffy that Clint can’t see out of it. _

 

_ Harold glares at Clint’s mother. “What’s the matter? I thought you wanted us all to be happy! Even though we’re out of fucking money and the bills are past due! We’re just having a little fun partying, so what! Calm down!” _

 

_ Clint flinches when Harold crouches down in front of him again, and Harold laughs. “What, scared of your old man? It’s just a party, son, lighten up! Laugh a little!” _

 

_ Clint tries to lip read him, but he can’t. Harold’s words are slurring, and it’s changing the way his mouth moves, Clint doesn’t have hearing aids, they can’t afford those, and Clint’s eye is swollen shut, so Clint has no idea what he’s supposed to say. It probably wouldn’t have mattered, Clint thinks, even as his father smacks him across the face. _

 

Clint gasps as he comes back to the dungeon, looks around wildly and realizes he can’t see out of his left eye, can’t hear anything that’s being said even with his hearing aids, and fuck if that doesn’t mess him up. He tries to lip read, but with only one eye and no help from his hearing aids, he’s at a loss.

 

He waits for the next memory.

 

_ “You’re stealing from the circus?” Clint asks incredulously, and Swordsman watches him carefully, evaluating. _

 

_ “Yes. What do you want? A cut of the money to buy your silence?” _

 

_ Clint frowns. “No! I want you to not steal from the carnival. They’re paying us. Giving us a place to stay, a home, a family. Why would you throw all of that away?” _

 

_ Swordsman shrugs. “There’s better money to be made elsewhere, and if I steal enough, eventually I can move on, make a new life for myself.” _

 

_ Clint shakes his head. “I can’t let you do this,” he says, and Swordsman sighs. _

 

_ “Don’t do this, kid. It doesn’t have to go this way.” _

 

_ “Then put the money back. Return what you stole.” _

 

_ Swordsman draws his sword, points it at Clint. “No. Walk away.” _

 

_ Clint hesitates, but he lunges at Swordsman as fast as he can, knocks the man off of his feet and sends the sword flying. _

 

_ “You’ve made a mistake, kid.” _

 

_ Swordsman flips them so he’s pinning Clint to the ground, and sure, Clint didn’t think that he would be able to beat a thirty year old man at only sixteen years old, but he was hoping to have put up a better fight than this. _

 

_ Swordsman punches and kicks him, breaks five of Clint’s ribs, his nose, and his right kneecap. He dislocates Clint’s left shoulder, and when Clint is so battered that he’s just laying underneath Swordsman, trying to breathe, Swordsman walks over and picks up his sword, comes back over to Clint. _

 

_ “Just so you remember what happened here,” Swordsman says, then proceeds to cut an “S” into Clint’s right thigh, cutting straight through Clint’s jeans in the process. _

 

_ Swordsman stands, gathers the rest of the money, and leaves Clint laying there, bleeding out and barely breathing. _

 

Clint blinks as the dungeon comes back into view, and he looks down to see the letter “S” bleeding through his pant leg. Fuck. Just when he thought that maybe that scar would heal. Oh well.

 

The next memory starts.

 

_ Barney and Trick Shot abandon Clint on the side of the road. _

 

_ They at least gave him time to heal, after Swordsman, but it was clear in both of their actions, in the three months while Clint was recovering, that they thought that Clint had failed the circus, failed them. _

 

_ As they’re leaving their most recent carnival location, they ask Clint to go out and grab something they’d left over by a tree, and Clint can’t find it, comes back to the trailer to find Barney, Trick Shot, and the trailer gone. Clint lays down on the grass, stares up at the sky, and starts to cry, each sob jostling his still healing ribs. _

 

_ He’s alone, he has no money, and he has nowhere to go. He’s going to die. _

 

Clint doesn’t even look up when the memory fades, just waits for the next one. He just wants this to be over with.

 

_ Clint doesn’t want to kill anyone. Fuck, he really doesn’t, but what choice does he have? After Barney and Trick Shot abandoned him, no other circus will take him. He doesn’t have any other skills besides his shooting, he has almost no education, and he practically doesn’t exist legally, so he’s stuck living off the books. _

 

_ He’s been hired as an assassin, and he has three separate targets, all three to be taken out today. All three targets live in Budapest, no obvious connecting motive, no connecting information about them on the books. _

 

_ Clint takes out all three easily, but when he goes back to tell his employer, there’s suddenly a lot more people in the room, and Clint’s immediately on edge. _

 

_ “It’s done. So, I’ll just get paid, and be on my way,” he says, turning to walk out the door behind him, only to be stopped by a man blocking the door. _

 

_ “Sorry, we can’t let you leave. I’m sure you understand,” the employer says, and Clint sighs, because he knew there had to be a reason no one else had taken this job yet. Fuck. _

 

_ Clint decides to try and fight his way out, because what else can he do? They took the gun from him when he came in, so his only option is hand-to-hand combat. He’s brought his empty hands to a gun fight. Great. _

 

_ Clint manages to take down the first guy, and he’s just incapacitated the next two when someone shoots him from behind, and he’s pretty sure he felt the bullet go clean through his hip. Another bullet gets his shoulder, and another hits his ankle, and Clint screams, drops to his knees. _

 

_ He’s just starting to think that maybe they’ll be merciful enough to kill him quickly if he gives up now when he hears a gun firing rapidly, and then the gunfire stops. He lifts his head, and finds a woman walking towards him from the doorway, knife in hand. _

 

_ “Whoa, don’t stab me!” he pleads, raising his hands. “They were trying to kill me, I’m not an enemy. But, if you’re going to kill me, can you take a request and at least do it quickly?” _

 

_ The woman pauses. “Who are you?” _

 

_ “Clint. I’m just trying to survive, okay? I needed money, I took the job. I haven’t eaten in like two weeks, just, I wanted food. Please.” _

 

_ The woman nods. “You’re not part of my mission. I have no need to kill you.” The woman checks the clock on the wall. “I have time before I’m required to report back. I can get you food, and fix your injuries, if you want.” _

 

_ Clint nods. “Please. Thank you.” He tries to stand, only to hiss and drop back to his knees when his left ankle gives out, probably broken from the bullet. _

 

_ The woman leans down. “Here.” She pulls Clint to his feet, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders and helping him limp out of the room. _

 

Clint looks up at Natasha, catches her smiling sadly at him, and he tries to smile back, then let’s the last memory happen.

 

_ Loki did something with the scepter, and suddenly Clint couldn’t help but obey him. He didn’t want to, he didn’t, but whatever the scepter had done made him obey commands, even made him give Loki information he normally would never have shared. _

 

_ “So, tell me, what do you do for SHIELD?” Loki asks. _

 

_ “Recon. Undercover work. Aerial support. And they’ve been sending me to evaluate other candidates for the Avengers Initiative,” Clint answers, even as his brain screams at him to stop, stop talking, don’t say anything else. _

 

_ Loki nods. “And is there anyone in particular I should be worried about?” _

 

_ “Natasha Romanov, assassin, Black Widow. Her list of skills and abilities is extensive, she has a murder count higher than most governments, and she can complete any mission with incredible efficiency.” _

 

_ Loki grins. “Oh, and you like her, don’t you? Interesting. Kill her.” _

 

_ “Yes sir,” Clint says, and he leaves the room, even as all of his instincts scream at him to run, to leave, to go far away and never come back. _

 

Their captor probably says something, Clint’s not sure, he just feels the jewel being taken off of his head, and then he collapses in the bonds, sobs. He should pull himself together, it’s ridiculous, crying in a room full of literal superheroes, but he can’t help himself.

 

He’s tired, he’s scared, he thought he’d gotten over some of those things but clearly he hadn’t, he can’t hear anything, he can barely see, and he’s hurt. He just wants to go home. But they still have Bruce’s memories to watch, and then, supposedly, they can go home. Clint doubts that will happen, but he’s starting to realize that anything, absolutely anything, is possible at this point.


	5. Bruce

Bruce is last, and he can admit that he’s terrified; he’s seen all of his teammates’ worst memories, and he genuinely has no idea what he’ll be shown for himself. While it’s the gamma radiation that makes the Hulk worth having on the Avengers team, Hulk has been around since well before the radiation accident.

 

Bruce had developed Dissociative Identity Disorder by age 5, and the Hulk has been coping with Bruce’s trauma for that long. Bruce hadn’t actually realized he had DID until after the gamma radiation accident, because that was the first time someone else could verify that something had happened to Bruce in the timeframe he couldn’t remember, and before that Bruce had just assumed he had really bad memory.

 

So when their captor walks in the day after Clint, Bruce tenses as she approaches, unable to hide his panic about this.

 

“Well, not so tough without the big guy, huh? That’s okay, we’ll find out why in a minute.”

 

The woman puts the jewel on Bruce’s forehead, and he watches as the first memory is projected on the wall.

 

_ Bruce lays in bed, staring at the ceiling, brain moving faster than he can keep track of. He’s stared at these walls for hours on end, and nothing changes, there’s nothing interesting in the room. Bruce tells himself he can wait until morning, but he’s just so  _ bored _ , and eventually his curiosity wins. _

 

_ Bruce gets out of bed and sneaks downstairs, opening one of the gifts under the Christmas tree with his name on it from his mother. It’s a building set, and Bruce’s eyes light up as he pulls out the pieces, assembling it without so much as a glance at the instructions. _

 

_ He’s just put the last piece on top when he hears a voice behind him. _

 

_ “What are you doing?” _

 

_ Bruce turns as his father storms up to him, lifting Bruce into the air by the collar of his shirt. “What are you doing! Messing around down here? How did you build that, huh?” _

 

_ Bruce’s voice is caught in his throat, and he can’t get any words out, hands scrabbling against his dad’s arm in an attempt to get away, shaking his head. _

 

_ “Brian, stop!” _

 

_ Bruce’s dad turns, still holding Bruce up. “Rebecca, look at what he’s done! He’s four years old, Rebecca, four year olds don’t just  _ do _ things like that! You can’t tell me this is normal!” _

 

_ “And so what? He’s a  _ child _ , Brian, he’s  _ our _ child, so what if he’s smart, that’s a good thing! Put him down!” Bruce’s mom tries to get Brian to let go of Bruce, but he slaps her, knocking her to the side. _

 

_ “No! Not like this, this is… this is  _ unnatural _!” _

 

_ “Mr. Banner!” Nurse Meachum is standing in the doorway, and Brian drops Bruce, who whimpers, walking over to check on his mom. _

 

_ “Put the kid to bed, I’m not dealing with this,” Brian says, footsteps stomping up the stairs. _

 

_ Rebecca takes Bruce’s hand when he reaches her, smiling. “I love you, baby, we’re going to be okay. I promise.” _

 

Bruce looks around the dungeon when the memory fades, partially out of breath and heart pounding. He doesn’t remember that happening. He didn’t know that happened.

 

“You look more surprised than the rest of us,” their captor says, “I wonder if you’ll recognize the next memory?”

 

The room fades away again around Bruce.

 

_ “Stop, Dad, please,” Bruce begs, but his dad just laughs, keeps Bruce pinned on the bathroom floor on his stomach with his arm twisted behind his back. _

 

_ “Or what? Come on, use those mutations I know you have! Get away on your own, I know you can!” _

 

_ Bruce struggles, thrashing in a panic as his dad pulls his arm further and further back, and he screams as his shoulder dislocates, screams again as his arm breaks. “Please, please, it hurts, Dad, please.” _

 

_ Brian lets go of Bruce’s arm, stands up and glares at him. “Fine, you won’t do it today, but maybe another day. We’ll go to the hospital, but only if you don’t tell anyone about this. As far as anyone else needs to know, you fell down the stairs, you understand me?” _

 

_ Bruce nods, sobbing, and Brian grabs him by his broken arm, hauls him to his feet. “Let’s go then.” _

 

Bruce watches the memory fade, winces when he tries to move his arm and finds that it is, in fact, broken. He doesn’t remember that either. What else doesn’t he remember? How much of his childhood is just gone because of memories like this?

 

“What else have you got for us, Dr. Banner?” their captor asks, and Bruce doesn’t say anything, wouldn’t even know how to answer that question if he wanted to. The room fades away again.

 

_ “We’re leaving,” Bruce’s mom says, and Bruce watches as she gathers Bruce’s clothes from the closet, packing it into a suitcase. Bruce’s dad grabs her wrist. _

 

_ “You’re not going anywhere,” Brian snarls, and Rebecca freezes, looks up at him. _

 

_ “Let go of me,” she says, and her voice is sharp and angry, which only seems to piss Brian off more. _

 

_ “No. Don’t fucking make me angry, Rebecca.” _

 

_ Rebecca yanks her wrist out of Brian’s grip. “Stop it! This is exactly why I’m leaving! Because you can’t control your temper.” _

 

_ Brian grabs her arm, backhanding her across the face. “I only have a temper because of you! This is what you do to me! Because you can’t see reason!” _

 

_ Brian starts hitting her, and Bruce watches in horror as Brian breaks Rebecca’s nose, knocks her to the ground, and crouches over her, hitting her until her screams stop, until the tan carpet is stained red and the only sound is the sound of bones breaking and Brian panting, out of breath, as Bruce watches, frozen silently in place. _

 

“Oh, interesting! Obviously your mother’s death and your father’s trial is public record, but who knew it was so  _ gruesome _ ,” their captor says, and Bruce shivers, because he only remembers vaguely that his dad killed his mom, he hadn’t actually remembered the details, and he hates this, because he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what the next memory will be.

 

The room fades again.

 

_ “You’re going to tell that pretty lawyer that you lied, you hear me?” The man, a coworker of Brian’s, tells Bruce. The man had pulled him into an alley when he was walking home from school, and he’d covered Bruce’s mouth with his hand, threatening to kill him if he screamed. _

 

_ Bruce shakes his head. “I-I didn’t lie, he hurt me,” Bruce protests. _

 

_ The man sighs. “Kid, how much more do you want to get hurt, huh? All you have to do is say it wasn’t his fault, that he’s a good dad, and you get to go home and forget about all of this. But if you keep making your dad look bad, your life is going to become a living hell, I personally guarantee it.” _

 

_ Bruce hesitates, and the man pulls out a switchblade, grabs Bruce’s arm. _

 

_ “You know, lots of kids self harm to get attention, you wouldn’t look any different. I can cut you up all nice, no one would think twice about it.” _

 

_ Bruce shakes his head. “Please don’t, I’ll, I’ll testify, I promise,” Bruce says, and the man nods. _

 

_ “Good choice. Let’s just give you a quick reminder of that promise, shall we?” The man cuts a line across Bruce’s left wrist, and Bruce bites his lip to keep from making noise. _

 

_ The man puts the blade away, and lets go of Bruce’s arm. “Have a good rest of your day, kid.” _

 

The room changes, and Bruce lets out a shaky breath, can feel the cut on his wrist again. He hadn’t remembered how they’d convinced him to fake his testimony, just that they had. He’s at least glad his dad was dumb enough to brag about it after the trial and get caught.

 

“Only one more!” their captor says cheerfully, and Bruce waits as the memory starts.

 

_ Bruce stares down the barrel of the handgun he’d bought earlier that week. For the first time in his life, he’s grateful for how easy guns are to buy in this country, because otherwise he never would have been able to buy one with cash and no ID. _

 

_ He takes a deep breath, letting it out. He’d bought the gun, then hiked his way up the nearest mountain, as far away as he could get from any other people. If he can even call himself a person, at this point. _

 

_ He just can’t do this anymore. He’s living his life on the run, he has to constantly monitor himself so he doesn’t risk letting Hulk do his thing, and he hasn’t been able to rest, really rest, in months. Even when he sleeps, he has to be on guard in case someone approaches him, in case Ross and them find him. He’s just so damn tired. _

 

_ He’d tried to do this once before; about a month ago, he’d bought a gun similar to this one, had found a secluded place, and had put the gun to his own head before he panicked, had dropped the gun and told himself that he couldn’t do it. This time, he’s ready. _

 

_ Bruce puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth, closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger, welcomes the darkness that follows. _

 

_ When Bruce wakes up, in a part of the mountains different from where he last remembers being and naked, the taste of gunpowder in his mouth, he curls up in a ball, sobbing, because of course the other guy wouldn’t let him give up. Of course not. _

 

The surroundings change again, and Bruce finds himself back in the room with his team. He can’t find the strength to make eye contact. He doesn’t want to know what he’ll see in their expressions if he does.

 

“Well, that’s intriguing. Huh. Anyway, that’s the end of our journey together, ladies and gentlemen! Your restraints should release in around four hours, until then, just hang tight, I’m sure you all have a lot to talk about!” Their captor takes the jewel off of Bruce’s forehead and leaves.

 

Bruce looks up at his teammates, smiling sadly. “So that was unpleasant,” he says, and no one says anything. Bruce hangs his head again, staring at the ground in front of him.

 

Tony’s the next to speak, clearing his throat first. “Okay, so where are we at, injury wise? Assuming we were given an accurate report of how long we’ve been here, I’ve had four days to recover, and I’m feeling okay, all things considered. If we really are being let go, Barton is going to need a guide, at the very least, and Romanoff is going to need help with that ankle. Cap, how are you doing? You feeling up to that?”

 

Bruce looks up as Steve nods. “I’m good. I think the serum was slowed down, at the least, but I’m fine, nothing too serious. I can carry Clint or Natasha if that’s what it comes to, but I can probably only carry one of them comfortably. Bruce, how are you holding up?”

 

“I’ll manage, but I won’t be able to help anyone else. Tony, are you sure you’re okay?”

 

Tony grins, and Bruce recognizes it as one of Tony’s best press smiles. “Peachy keen. I can help Cap with Clint or Natasha if need be, but until then, we should all try to rest.”

 

Bruce wants to argue that he’s more concerned about Tony’s health than his ability to help, but he just nods, closes his eyes for now.

 

He must doze off, because the next thing he knows, he’s collapsing to the ground, landing heavily on his dislocated shoulder with a shout.

 

“I didn’t think we’d actually be let go,” Natasha says as she pulls herself to her feet, nose wrinkling as she sees where she’d fallen in her own vomit from before, and Tony laughs, standing on shaky feet and making his way over to Natasha, putting her right arm over his shoulders.

 

“Well, when have our lives ever made sense?”

 

Clint stumbles to his feet, groaning and whimpering, only to crumple again when he puts weight on his broken knee. Steve rushes forward, scooping Clint up in his arms, and Clint stiffens, reaches up with shaky hands to feel Steve’s face, squints with his good eye as Steve tells him “it’s okay, I’ve got you,” before he relaxes.

 

Bruce stands, holding his broken arm to his side gently as he walks over and opens the door to the room, leading the team out into a hallway, then out the front door onto what looks like one of the streets in New York.

 

“What the fuck,” Bruce says softly, and behind him, Natasha hums in agreement.

 

“That’s an understatement.”

 

Tony shrugs. “Well, understatement or not, we should get back to the tower and get patched up, we can talk about motive later.”

 

“And memories, we should talk about what we all just learned about each other,” Bruce adds, and Tony frowns.

 

“Wait, I thought you told me you weren’t that kind of doctor?”

 

Bruce smiles, because count on Tony to always try to make the best of a miserable situation. “I may or may not be. You’ll never know.”

 

“Ooh, a mystery, I like it. You know what I also like? Chinese food. We should get Chinese food. I’m starving.”


End file.
